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The Bombay Express

The train, the train, I hate the train

We fidget in groups, as the morning sun greets

Ready to claw and fight for the few empty seats

the scores who miss out left to squash in the aisles

while the lucky ones strap hang and sway for miles.

The noise, the noise, I hate the noise

The young folk board, new mobiles on show

Testing 21 ring tones --- only three to go!

Others stare vacantly with iPods blaring

while unsettled readers start cursing and swearing.

The people, the people, I hate the people.

They grumble, they pong, they’re bald and hairy

There’s dandruff-dotted backs and teens dressed like fairies

The prim, the proper, the perfumed tarts

And unwashed men with stale beer farts

The train, the train, I hate the train

With one seat free, you doze ’cos you’re zonked

Until a space-stealing fat arse down beside you plonks

Bored public servants packed in like sardines

With jolt-awake snores disturbing their dreams.

The youth, the youth, they’re so uncouth

Punkers and emos and goths all in black

With cadaver cosmetics, they posture in packs

Just like the Myers staff who skulk ’round the store

They adopt a blank look and choose to ignore

The people, the people, I’m one of those people

What gives me the right to have a whinge

To draw attention to the cultural cringe

well, mainly because when the fat lady sings

I have been guilty of most of these things.

© eoin macdhugail 07

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